


duality

by antikytheras



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Experimental Style, M/M, public vs private persona, rated t for big words and pretentiousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23496775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antikytheras/pseuds/antikytheras
Summary: It shouldn’t send a thrill through him, but it does.
Relationships: Dande | Leon/Kibana | Raihan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 108





	duality

It is as if there are two sides to Raihan: the wild, uncontrollable, surging force of nature on the other end of the battlefield, and the friendly, affable, kind man that exists everywhere else.

Even when he battles against others, he can never quite shed the skin of it; perhaps it is the result of a conscious effort on his part, or perhaps it is a part of him that perches by his shoulder, a constant reminder to hold back, just a little, lest he lose all in the centre of the raging storm.

But yet it is when he stands facing Leon that the mask begins to slip, the inky-black wingbeats of self-control and restraint washed away in the grey howl of winter winds.

And _oh_ how Leon loves the chaos, in the blitz of the hurricane that is unleashed all around him. He revels in it, yearns for it, lives for the pure, suffocating frenzy of showmanship and desperation that demands for his breath in exchange for the only calamity that has ever made him feel well and truly alive.

It shouldn’t send a thrill through him, but it does.

But then the last piece on the chessboard falls, and the battle is done (and the war is lost), and susurrus of wings returns to its perch, slips that affable mask over Raihan’s face again and washes all trace of the red-mad battle lust off his skin.

He becomes perfect, unblemished, the kind, glorious idol for the masses to worship.

When they politely shake hands in the aftermath, Leon is left to catch his breath, and wonder what he must do to break the storm again.

His appetite grows like a garden left unattended— messily, weeds growing where trees should sprawl and crumbling stone where there should be walls.

With every battle, his desire piles upon him like black feathers: soft, so thin and frail that he would never notice, until one day he wakes up and the raven is already burning in his heart, demanding to be heard.

With every battle, another part of him breaks. First, he cannot live without the adrenaline that shoots through him like a spark, jolting him awake every time Raihan outsmarts him with a clever little trick. Then, he can no longer imagine a life without the constancy of an equal by his side, one with the strength to feed and to choke the fires within him in equal measure.

And then the raven scatters into ash, like dust in the wind, and the garden is blanketed in black feathers that smell faintly of gunpowder and smoke. It is impossible to know if they had always been charred, not when he has never had the sense to look closely before the darkness had already been swallowed by the flames.

But it doesn’t matter, because it is already too late.

All he knows is Raihan— not the polite, distant front of friendly rivalry, but the cataclysm that boils beneath the surface, the storm that taunts and tames the inferno that has always writhed under his skin. But now the inferno is searing, responds even to the news of passing showers, craving and crooning for the sweet release of inhibitions that are safe and secure in the knowledge that every move will be met with an equal but opposite force.

The problem is this:

Raihan cannot (will not) shed the mask anywhere but the battlefield.

_His_ Raihan does not exist anywhere but the battlefield, and if Leon does not possess his rival in his entirety, the flames will consume him like they did the ash-raven in his heart.

It is charred-gunpowder-inevitability when he goes to find Raihan in the locker room.

His rival is seated on a bench, the sheen of sweat bright on his skin. His hoodie is folded in a neat pile beside him. Their battles always end in grime and dirt, thanks in no small part to Raihan’s preferred tactics.

Raihan looks up from his phone. He brings his other hand to the small towel wrapped around the back of his neck and wipes the sweat off his cheek. It only serves to bring Leon’s gaze to the trail disappearing down his throat to the hollows of his collarbone.

‘Yeah?’

He can feel the sticky mix of sweat-and-sand on his own skin. ‘Good fight today, like always.’

Raihan smiles back at him. It is a sweet, friendly smile, but it is one that might as well be a painted face. ‘Still lost, but I almost got you this time.’

‘That’s what you always say.’

And there, for a flash, is the cold-burning-blue, but then it sinks below the surface of the calm blue sea in his eyes. ‘Watch out. I’ll get you next time.’

Leon smiles that particular smile he reserves for their battles, and their battles only. ‘Tenth time’s the charm? You’ll have to do better than that to entertain me.’

Raihan puts his phone away and cocks his head, like he’s listening to a black winged thing perched upon his shoulder. They both know the rules of their little chess game, but this is the first time either of them has dared to test the waters in the wrong place. There is a storm flickering in his eyes, but his voice is level when he replies, ‘I dunno, you seemed pretty entertained today, mate.’

It is a subtle warning, in the way that a hurricane warning is an offhanded reminder to bring one’s umbrella to work.

A familiar heat spreads through Leon’s chest and demands to be heard.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Leon says, idly making his way to the space between his rival’s long legs.

Raihan raises an eyebrow. ‘Have you? That’s new.’ His gaze flicks over to the door for a moment, and in the silence, he listens.

Something has shifted. The inky-black wingbeats have disappeared, though the storm has not yet arrived.

Leon grins with no warmth but the fire within him yearning for _more_. ‘You’re pretty different on and off the field.’

By now, Leon is standing in between the spread of his rival’s long legs. He is close enough that he can almost taste the warm sweat on his skin.

Raihan does not flinch or lean back. Leon would never expect him to submit, certainly not _that_ easily. ‘Yeah, so I’ve been told.’

Hungry satisfaction slips into the brutal curve of Leon’s smile. ‘But there’s something different about your battles with me.’

It isn’t a question.

When Raihan curls his first into the front of Leon’s shirt, surprise-and-adrenaline jolt through him in equal measure. But years of getting thrown off-guard makes one used to surprises, and so it is with deliberate slowness that Leon brings his knees to either side of Raihan’s thighs.

He may tower over his rival for now, but eventually the storm will sweep them up and neither of them will know who is closer to the ground.

‘I think I deserve to know the real you,’ Leon murmurs, and something flashes in Raihan’s eyes.

He is silent for a long moment.

Leon is content to watch from above as the clouds swirl and build up into a massive howling _thing_ of winds.

‘You’re presuming a lot,’ Raihan says at last. The storm lashes out beneath his paper-thin veneer of self-control, coiling and writhing and demanding release.

Leon smiles as he watches his rival’s mask slip. From up close, he can finally see that it is about as flimsy as a paper crown. ‘Am I?’

Raihan does not question the validity of their mutual desire, not when they are practically accomplices to the other’s crimes. ‘I don’t know if you’d like it.’

Leon leans in and, with a sweet, searing kiss, burns the paper mask to charred gunpowder ash.

‘Try me.’

**Author's Note:**

> so that [anipoke raihan trailer](https://twitter.com/anipoke_PR/status/1246732057323028481) huh,,,
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/syorobao)


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